Happy New Year?
by AirborneGirl
Summary: You sure want to forget about this year. It was hell on earth. But the year's not over yet and nothing is what it seems...Rating for non-explicit sex and mild swearing.


**Happy New Year?**

**AN:** The 5th season hasn't been broadcast here in The Netherlands yet and even if it is, I'm not sure I want to watch it. So have no idea at what time of your Matt's shooting was supposed to be, so I just made up my own timeline. Author's prerogative.

This is my New Year's gift to all of you. May 2012 bring you all you could ever wish for!

Disclaimer: If the show is done with Matt, can I have him? No? Well, then they're not mine. Don't sue. I'm broke anyway. Oh well. On with it...

Four months. It had been four months since you've last felt the sun on your face or when you've last heard people laugh around you. Four agonizing long months in which the world has stopped turning, since you've last felt warm and happy.

In all honesty, you remember very little of the specific moment when they lowered the casket of DS Matt Devlin into the cold, unyielding ground, nor the hours after, where all of you got together to raise your glasses in a final salute to your beloved colleague and mate. You were hanging onto the arm of Jake on one side and Ronnie on the other, though the last one needed as much support as you did, crying unabashedly and openly at the loss of his 'Sunshine', his officer's dress uniform an odd contrast to his normal, slightly shabby wear.

A little to the side was Natalie, also with tears in her eyes, but still trying to comfort Matt's sister, who was wracked with sobs. Jake was standing solemnly next to the graveside. He had not known the young DS for very long and his heart wasn't invested in the man, but perhaps that's why he was the best equipped man to hold you up.

You cringed as the mandatory salute shots rang out, the sound violently reminding you of the exact reason why you would never get to see his wide blue gaze ever again.

You cringed. But never cried, though your chest was cramped. The pain was too immense for tears.

It hurt. Still hurt. Not just because you lost a friend, a mate, but because, ultimately, you lost a future with him as something more than that. He had hinted at it, you were convinced of it! And even if he hadn't, it was a dear dream you held onto with both hands. Somehow it felt like a small consolation: at least you were finally on track of becoming closer. Therefore, you consider yourself his girlfriend.

The one small ray of light you have in your life now is a blossoming friendship with Niamh, Matt's sister. She's like her brother in many ways and eager to share her childhood memories of the big brother she cared for so much. You've talked over the phone a couple of times and you're planning on getting together at her place, where photo albums are waiting for you to see and laugh about. It'll hurt for sure, but you need to do this, just because you need to keep him with you as close as possible.

Perhaps than you can cry. So far, your eyes hurt with repressed tears that just won't come.

Other than that, life drags on and on. Cases, court appearances, witnesses, you go through the motions, but somehow you've lost your normal compassion. You've become immune to the pleadings of other victims, your own pain still too big to add someone else's to it. Jake and Henry have obviously noticed and are constantly trying to get you to take a few weeks off, even threatening to force your hand by suspending you. You had hoped they would lay off, understanding that you need to cling to something to give your life meaning and that that something might as well be your career. But as the time goes by in a haze of dark office hours and coffee-fuelled nights (you haven't slept a full night since the shooting), they only insist more and more.

One of these days, you're going to strangle one of them. Then they'll have a reason to suspend you.

Today is just one more day at the office. Another day with smaller cases. It irks you that neither Jake nor Henry seems to have enough faith in your abilities to give you anything better to do than prosecute petty thieves and fraud. Nothing that keeps you even mildly awake and interested. While you know what they're working on.

Or rather, what they do not want you to know they're working on.

With Matt's shooting, it was of course the Crown Prosecutors' job to criminally charge the scumbag who fired the bullets and bring him to justice. Images of a dark cell in the Tower of London and the many horrific methods of torturing spring to mind and you indulge in the secret fantasy of being in charge of the racking and the disembowelment. And the decapitating too. Slowly, with a very blunt axe. His head would look nice when speared on the Tower Bridge. Those good old Tudor days were good for something more than a television series.

As it goes in modern times however, it's not that simple. Though you're sure his shooter will be found guilty when prosecuted, he was apparently linked to many more crimes in London and other cities, his name mentioned along with a quite extensive list of other notorious names of people who have so far managed to escape the hands of justice. His willingness to talk might solve a lot more cold cases. If offered, he will make a deal.

It's a mixed feeling for you. You want him as dead and cold as Matt's poor body in the ground, but the prosecutor in you knows that catching a lot more long sought after criminals is an opportunity you can't pass by, even if Matt's killer gets a milder sentence for his trouble. Matt himself would approve too, since it was his job, his passion, to rid the streets of his beloved city of as many scumbags as possible.

Knowing very well how you're still very much willing and able to execute the death penalty on him personally just in case he was minimally involved in your friend's murder, your male colleagues so far kept all the incriminating case files well away from your reach. They can't help you overhearing something every now and then, but they can and are redirecting your caseload.

So back to petty theft it is. Damn them.

Fighting to get your previous level of dedication and concentration back, you decide you're in need of a hell of a lot more coffee. And since the machine in the hallway does not provide you with stuff even resembling a beverage, you take your wallet and coat and head outside, unkindly not offering your colleagues any. If they think they can get away with keeping you out of the loop of Matt-related cases, you'll show them. It's a petty action and you know it, but you're not left with a lot of options, so petty or not, you're only looking after yourself here.

Fifteen minutes, one double espresso and one chocolate chip cookie later, you enter the building and your office again, only to be held back as curiosity gets a hold of you. Natalie's in there with both your male superior officers and it looks very much like she's arguing with them. Though you don't know the reason and would normally not care if it doesn't directly involve you, the snippets of conversation you hear, triggers your inquisitive nature.

That as well as your instinct. Which now tells you something's off. This is not just any old disagreement. This is something very serious. And there's a reason they keep peering into your own little space, as if making sure you can't overhear them.

Pretending to ignore them and unseeingly riffling through some random documents scattered across your desk, you actually point your sharp ears in their direction.

To no avail. Whatever or rather, whoever they're discussing, you can't make out a name or a case. Still, it irks you that, as they mention your own name once or twice, they don't involve you. Usually, none of the people in that little gathering are gossip mongers and you don't think that that's what they're doing now, but why mention you and not tell you anything?

Did you do something wrong? Are you in any kind of danger? They don't look very happy, so whatever it is, it's not good.

Then you get an idea. Thanks to a deaf cousin, you've learned how to read lips. It might not work with Jake, since his back is turned away from you, but both Henry and Natalie are facing you. If you can pretend you need to file some documents in the cabinet lining the window between your offices, you can get close enough to try and make sense of their discussion. As unobtrusively as possible, you shuffle your way over and study the heated faces of your own boss and your friend's superior officer. They're so concentrated on the matter at hand, neither notice you're not doing much filing in the filing cabinet…

"I say Alesha should be told before the case comes up. You can't just surprise her like that. She'll have a heart attack! And if she survives the shock, she'll never forgive any of us for what we did," Natalie's saying.

Henry disagrees.

"She's a professional. She's been through this scenario dozens of times. I know she can always convince others if this way of handling is the safest for all concerned. Sure, I agree, it's a shame we had to keep a piece of vital information from her, but she'll understand it's her own safety we were all concerned about. Including him."

Impatiently, Nat shakes her head.

"She's also a woman, Henry. And as such, this is a matter very close to her heart. As a prosecutor she might understand, but as a woman, a friend, a victim by proxy, she'll be livid. And rightfully so!"

"So what do you suggest we do now?"

Jacob interferes, but you don't know what he's saying. You just see Natalie nodding.

"Very well, we'll tell both of them, Ronnie and Alesha right before we go into court. She does not have to sit second chair, right?"

"No, she wasn't involved in the case itself. Too risky she would find something out we didn't want her to, so she would be very ill prepared."

Natalie sighs, a little ruefully and disheartened.

"I guess she'll be equally ill prepared for what will happen now. When is the court date again?"

"Next Friday's the start. He'll be the last on the list of material witnessed for the Crown Prosecution's case. So there should be enough time before his testimony to inform both Ronnie and Alesha. So the only question left: Which one of us gets to tell?"

Natalie shrugs, resigned to her fate.

"Ronnie's my detective, so I should be the one to tell him. And perhaps Alesha will take the news a bit better when it comes from another woman, so I'll tell her as well. And I'll tell him when to be there too."

She picks up her coat from the coat rack and gathers her belongings. Quickly, you turn your attention to the files you're supposed to be checking, barely avoiding eye contact with the DI. Shrewd as she is, it's not hard to imagine Natalie finding out exactly what you've been doing.

Though she has nothing to be worried about. There's still very little you've found out. Here's what you know:

First of all: She, Jacob and Henry have kept some vital information from you and Ronnie, apparently to protect you. Which is both very sweet of them as well as quite condescending. You're a grown woman and you've long since learned how to take care of yourself.

Second: this piece of information has something to do with a witness to some case and since neither you nor Matt's former partner Ronnie have been informed, the case at hand must have something to do with his shooting.

Third: unless you break into Jake's file cabinet and/or his computer, you'll never find out what the hell is happening until next Friday.

Fourth: that's too long…

Deciding the day has been long enough on you, you pack your bags and leave. Since you've been working more than double your normal amount of hours these past few weeks just to keep busy (i.e. keep the nightmares at bay by pure exhaustion), you know neither one of your co-workers will have trouble with your leaving early for a change. And if they do; well tough!

Unbeknownst to you, Jake watches you leave. He's come to care for you and he knows these past few months have worn you down quicker and more thorough than any case ever had before, even your own rape. He too thinks it's unfair you've been kept uninformed about a certain very important detail in the Devlin shooting case, though he also still firmly believes in the decision as it was made.

A sudden realization gets a hold of him.

What if he doesn't have to wait for you to be told? After all, anyone can be a little forgetful sometimes. Anyone can be in a hurry and not clean their desk properly…

The next day, you make sure you're the first one in the office, with the exception of the porter and a cleaning lady, whom you greet as you pass. They're the only ones in the building you're not angry with anyway.

Now normally, you play by the books. Too many cases have failed in the past or never even made it to court because of common carelessness, this is a job you can't afford to make mistakes in. So when you notice someone else slacking, or not adapting to the straight rules of the British legal system, you both inform them about their mistake and help them correct it if possible and necessary.

Today, you're not in the mood to play fair. And so, when you notice a case file marked 'confidential' lying carelessly on Jacob's desk, you, for once, let your curiosity take over. You happen to know he's out for some meetings all morning, so there's no fear he might catch you in the act, so you simply walk in and take the file. Any clerk walking around will assume by your confident stride that you're perfectly allowed to do what you're doing.

At your own desk, you open the file and scan it through…

_The defendant is being accused of the attempted murder of Detective Sergeant Matthew Devlin, etc…_

You almost splutter out the morning coffee you had on the way when, almost paralyzed with disbelief, you reread the sentence, blinking furiously to just try and wipe away that one inappropriate, crazy word. The one that does not make sense to you in any way.

Attempted.

Attempted murder.

As far as you know, there was no attempt. There was only a hideous success for the demons who ended the life of your friend, the man you were, no ARE in love with. Just because he's gone does not mean you love him any less.

Anger surges through you again. How could he be so stupid? Was Jake really going to prepare a murder case, and one of a respected police officer at that, with such a mistake in printing? Bloody hell! Cases have been dismissed for lesser stupidities than that, with killers and rapists going free. You yourself should know that one moment of carelessness can cost a person dearly and if they, for even one moment, think you're going to let Matt's murderer, of all accused monsters, walk away from his crime as untouched by the system as when he was being brought in, they're sorely mistaken. You can't do that. Not to the memory of Matt and not to the people he's left behind, the people who still mourn over him.

You have to wait until after lunch to run into the Senior Crown Prosecutor, as he steps into his own office after his busy morning of meetings and visits. Without so much as catching your breath, you pounce on him even before he has a chance to take off his coat.

With a look of disdain, you shove the offending piece of paper underneath his nose.

"Attempted murder, Jake?"

Startled, your colleague and (normally) friend, yanks the report from your hand, looking quite horrified that you've read it in the first place. For one moment, your gazes meet, yours ablaze with anger, his with both anger and concern. The concern is somewhat kind of him, but you urge yourself not to let him chastise you for reading a report not meant for your eyes. Serves him well for leaving it on his desk for anyone to find. As far as you're concerned, he should be happy it was you instead of a genitor or clerk. At least you've sworn an oath of integrity.

"Alesha…how much did you read of this file?"

What does that matter?

"Enough to know that with a report this ill prepared, Matt's murderer will walk free. You can't let that happen, Jake! Not to Ronnie, or his sister, or…or me," you finish lamely.

Pleading is not what you wanted to do. It renders you helpless and that's not the impression you want to leave behind.

His demeanour toward you changes. Though he hasn't worked with you for very long, he knows by now that, once you've bitten down on something, you won't drop the subject easily. If he wants to convince you to back off, he'd better make sure he has some damn good reasons.

"Look, Alesha, I can reprimand you for reading a report clearly labelled 'confidential', but then again, we both know it was my mistake to leave it out in the open, so let's skip that part for now and get to the heart of the matter."

He sits down and points you to take a chair as well.

"Let me make one phone call first, please."

You nod in consent and he quickly dials a number.

"Natalie? It's Jake. Listen, I've changed my mind. Alesha is sitting here with me. She's read a part of Matt's case file…"

He pauses as he's listening to the voice on the other end of the line. Then answers back.

"So he knows already? Oh, I see...yes, I can imagine. Poor bloke was pretty startled I guess..."

Another answer from Natalie, then Jake again.

"...yes, I think that's wise. Thank you. See you all in a while."

He hangs up and turns to you again.

"I think we'd better wait for our guests."

"Who did you invite?"

"Natalie, Ronnie and...his partner."

You want to remind him that the man's name is Sam, but even though you honestly have nothing against the new DS on the block (he's kind enough; understanding that it takes everybody some time to adjust to him in these circumstances), you still think of Ronnie's partner as being Matt, so you keep your mouth shut.

Silence envelopes the both of you and you're glad Jake offers to get some coffee. You're not thirsty, but the waiting is getting to you, especially since you have no idea what you're waiting for exactly.

Half an hour of mindless conversations and two cups of coffee later, you're finally being put out of your misery with the arrival of DI Natalie Chandler and DS Ronnie Brooks. The look on the latter's face shocks you. He's pale as a ghost, eyes wide and unfocussed and for a quick moment, you fear that he's fallen off the wagon again. But surely, if that was the case, Nat must have noticed?

Plus, you have faith in the older DS, who would never in a million years betray the trust his 'Sunshine' had in his abilities to stay sober, even if said sunshine is not here any longer. Especially because he's not.

After shaking hands with Jake (none too kindly, judging by the look in his eyes), he plops down on the chair next to yours and grabs your hand. You're too surprised by this very uncommon display of affection to question the move, so you just give him a squeeze in reassurance. If he needs to hold on to you for whatever it is you're about to hear, he's most welcome.

Funny how, soon enough, you come to realize that it's not for his own benefit he took your hand. Soon enough, you need all the support you can get as the story gets crazier and crazier around you.

First, there's the usual, general talk about the trail of Matt's shooter, your statement and Ronnie's and how your testimonies, already included in the case files, will be heard in court as well. Nothing new there, though you loath to be the one on the witness stand. Last time wasn't much fun either, but at least Matt had been there to see you through...

Until Natalie adds that there's a third material witness they need to hear. A witness they, so far, have kept under strict protection since his life could not be brought in danger again. It's disconcerting to see the normally so formal and focussed DI Chandler falter and stumble over her words as she continues her story. Stuttering is not her usual MO. The pressure of Ronnie's hand over yours increases and warns you that you're about to get to the very clue of this case. And that it's going to be a shock.

Bracing yourself, you listen closely, all the while thinking that, whatever it is, it can't be as bad as watching Matt bleed to death on the cold street.

Suddenly, Natalie concentrates her gaze solely on you and at the same time, Ronnie's posture tightens and his hold on your hand becomes almost painful.

"Alesha, I know you're worried about the word attempted as is it used in the prosecution's report, but it has a good reason. One we couldn't let tell you anything about because of your own safety and that of our main witness. But let me assure you there were no mistakes made in the charges. And I hope, sincerely hope one day you'll forgive us our scheme."

She then reaches in her bag, retrieves her mobile phone and presses a button.

"You can come in now." Is the only thing she says to whoever is on the other end of the connection.

You don't care though. How can the other woman just sit there and blatantly lie about the huge error made in an official report? And if it's done on purpose, as she suggests, then what in the world can justify such a huge breech of conduct? Can't she understand that Matt's killer can get away with taking the most beautiful human being you've all ever met from your lives?

Unable to vent your anger while sitting down, you wrench your hand away from Ronnie's and start pacing, bringing your petite body as close to Natalie as you can, screeching in her face like a banshee.

"Scheme? What scheme? All I know is that Matt's gone forever because of that son of a bitch! There's no such thing as merely an attempt if it was successful!"

"But it wasn't, Alesha love."

...

It's like someone has just thrown a bucket of ice cubes down your back. Your world starts spinning out of control. You knów that voice, but it can't bé that voice. That voice was muted. Forever silenced. Along with his owner.

Slowly, hardly able to breathe through the shock, you turn.

Blue eyes you never thought you'd see again focus on yours. A hand you never thought you'd feel again reaches out to steady you. Along with the voice they tell you that, indeed, you're looking at the man you love. The man whose funeral you attended four months ago.

But it can't be true. He's no figure out of some kind of fantasy novel. He's no immortal, elf or vampire. He's a human being who, for all you know, should be dead.

Matt's dead. Only he's not. He's here. Alive. Well. Breathing.

Only you're not. Not well. Not breathing.

Your surroundings blacken, voices come to you as if wrapped in a dense fog.

The last thing you feel is Matt's arms catching you as you fall backwards into darkness...

_This dream is wonderful, warm, fuzzy. He's holding you closely, rocking you against his chest, his blue gaze holding yours; a smile on his beautiful face. He's okay, alive, not shot to death and he's whispering sweet words in your ear, urging you to wake up..._

"_Wake up, Lesh. Open your eyes, love."_

_But you don't want to. You know he can't be there, won't be there when you go back to reality. So no, you prefer to stay in the dream._

"_Come on, love. Open your eyes now."_

The voice is persistent, annoying, but it has a pretty ring to it and even if you don't really want to, the dream is starting to evaporate around you and slowly, you blink your eyes a few times before opening them again.

He's holding you closely, rocking you against his chest, his blue gaze holding yours; a smile on his beautiful face. He's okay, alive, not shot to death and he's whispering sweet words in your ear. And this time, you're quite sure it's no dream.

Strange. Of all the conflicting emotions churning in the pit of your stomach, it's anger that surfaces first. No, not anger. Rage. A red hot flaming rage at this man who has the audacity to resurrect from the grave without any warning and now act like nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

Dizzy or not, you yank yourself away from his grip and start attacking him with both fists, mercilessly pummelling his broad chest with slams he hardly feels. He doesn't pull back, doesn't try to duck away from you. Instead, he just lets the storm rage out until you're clean out of energy. Panting heavily and still shaking, you lean against his solid, warm presence, feeling his arms envelope you immediately.

Something prickles in the corner of your eyes. Something wet runs down your cheeks. It takes a moment for you to realize you're crying. Finally. And it's unstoppable now; the floodgates are widely and truly opened.

Matt tightens his grip on you, soothing you with soft spoken words and kisses on the top of your head, while rubbing his hands in slow circles down your back, until, at long last, the well dries out. Sniffing and hiccupping and suddenly exhausted, you slump against him, wincing at the wet spot your own tears created on the front of his shirt.

He lets you be for a while and silence fills the room. Only then do you notice that the other four people in the room have all left you to yourselves, granting you the privacy you needed to fall apart at the seams. You make a mental note to thank them for their discretion, until you remember you're still angry as hell at them for letting you believe all this time that the man you love was taken from you forever.

You want answers, starting with the newly alive man holding you.

"You're supposed to be dead."

The lame accusation brings a smile to his face. He nods and turns your head towards his own, fishing in his pockets for a handkerchief. Gently, lovingly, he wipes the tear streaks from both your cheeks, kissing each one before answering, telling the whole story in one go.

"Honestly, I almost was. Those bullets were very real, love."

"Then...what happened? Where have you been all this time? And who knew about this? And why didn't they, didn't YOU trust me enough to tell me? Do I really mean that little to you?"

He winces at the accusation, but takes it with grace, knowing and acknowledging your right to vent your confusion and anger.

"Let me tell you the whole story, but before I start, I want you to know that you mean the world to me. And I do trust you. Will you hear me out, please?"

You nod, letting yourself fall on the sofa, no longer capable of standing on your own now that he's let go of you. Matt tentatively sits down next to you and starts talking, weighing his word carefully.

"I was taken to the hospital and the bullets were removed. Apparently, during those hours, Natalie, Jake and Henry concocted the story that the bullets had killed me, thinking it was safer if the killers thought they were in the clear, their only witness who could have identified them now dead. They hoped it would mean they would get careless. At least that part worked, because you know they were caught pretty soon."

Yeah, you wondered about that.

"I was in an induced coma for a month and when I woke up, Natalie told me they would transfer me to a rehab centre in the country under an assumed name, because I was supposed to be dead. They even held a funeral for me. I did ask them who knew about this little scam, and I had hoped her answer would include you and Ronnie and Niamh. But it didn't. Not one of you, not even my own sister, was supposed to know the truth, to protect you."

"I would have kept the secret! So would Ronnie and Niamh!"

He smiles ruefully and caresses your cheek in such a sweet, intimate gesture, you almost choke on newly developing tears.

"I know, love. But would you have managed to stay away from me for all these months? Not visit me, phone me, even text me? Would I have managed not to get in touch with you while that was really all I ever wanted?"

There's really nothing you can say, knowing with painful clarity that he's right. Matt goes on, now seemingly so desperate to get seventeen agonizingly lonely, silent weeks off his chest, he doesn't notice he's already convinced you. But hey, he let you vent, now it's his turn.

"What would have happened if someone followed one of you if you would have tried to come see me? Or hurt you to get to me? I would never forgive myself if they would hurt my best mate or one of the women I love most in this world because it's me they wanted. I'd rather get shot again than know that I was somehow responsible for your pain. But believe me, I too protested vehemently against their little fairytale. First because it was totally concocted without my consent while I was not in a position to object and second because it meant I had to live with the consequences of their choices and so would you. I missed you like crazy while I was all alone in that centre without any familiar friendly face around and I figured you must be hurting too. Just the thought of you being in pain because of a crazy lie, while knowing that there was nothing I could do to tell you the truth. It was excruciating."

His smile is so sweet, so helpless, so sincere that all residual anger evaporates. For the first time since the shock of seeing him again, do you consider how difficult this period has been for him. To have to recuperate on his own, without the support of family and friends, who all think he's dead and buried. To know that they're mourning over him and not being able to reach out to them and tell them not to worry; that he's alive and well.

You feel for his pain as you retrace his last four months. How hard it must have been. At least you had lots of support from your loved ones. He had nobody there for him while healing from a terrible injury. The pain of the bullets only aggravated by the pain in his heart for the people he loved and missed and knowingly had to hurt.

Like you.

This sudden, beautiful realization makes your heart surge with warmth. Were you in prosecutor mode, you would have noticed the incriminating statements sooner, but with your mind still in shock, it took you somewhat longer to fully grasp what he has just admitted.

He missed you. Like crazy. You're one of the women he loves most. The other one is no competition since she's his sister and you're sure Matt does not love you like another sister.

Matt Devlin has resurrected and now he's confessed he loves you.

Why in the world did you think this would be a horrible day?

As all conflicting emotions hit you from all sides, you start to laugh and cry at the same time, spluttering and generally not making a very pretty picture. Poor Matt just hauls you in his arms again, though his anxiousness has subsided and he's content with just holding you.

"I must look a fright," you mumble from the crevices of his shirt.

Matt just chuckles and lifts your face with just one finger, gently urging you to look up at him.

"You look absolutely perfect to me," he whispers.

All fun and games forgotten, he traces your lower lip with his thumb and as you sigh in sweet contentment, he lowers his mouth to capture yours in the softest, most perfect kiss you've ever participated in.

Every cell in your body zings, fizzles and tickles and you're afraid your heart will either completely overflow or simply burst with joy. Matt too seems to thoroughly enjoy himself. He pulls you closer and attacks your lips with a gusto. For many moments, you make out on the boss's sofa like a couple of horny teenagers, loving every minute of it.

Only when someone scrapes their throat loudly, do you reluctantly let go of each other. Immediately you miss his warmth and you're glad he takes your small hand in his own. He too seems determined to keep some kind of connection between the two of you.

As the others walk back in, you see Ronnie's face light up. Sure, he, like you, did not appreciate being left out of the loop, mourning the loss of his mate, his 'Sunshine' as deeply as you did. But the genuine smile on his roughened features shows that his pleasure of having Matt back in his life prevails. Though Sam is by no means a lesser man than Matt, he has so far never got out of the shadow of his predecessor. You do feel guilty about that, but according to Ronnie, Sam understood it would take time. Now, as Natalie tells you, he'll return to his old position with his own mate and he's fine with that. As a copper, he's just as happy to have one of their own returned to them as any of them. They all know it could just as easily have been them.

Matt will return to his regular position after he testified at the upcoming trial.

"For desk duty only." Natalie warns, with a stern look at the young DS, who promptly starts to whine like a small, petulant child.

"Oh, Nat, come on. I'll be careful," he wheedles, but she won't have any of it.

"No. Definitely not. You will not get back on the streets until the doctors clear you. Your lungs were heavily damaged and I don't want you to collapse out of sheer exhaustion."

"I bet I can still outrun Ronnie," he mumbles, making you snort and his mate look up with an insulted look on his face.

"So can we all, Matt. But that's not the point."

"Oi, are you done bashing me?" Ronnie quips.

"Never," is the immediate answer from both gov and mate.

"Hmm, at least you agree on something," comes the equally dry answer from the heavily tormented older DS.

In the end, it's agreed that Matt will get a medical check-up as soon as possible after the trial. If the doctor thinks he's up to the task, he can resume his normal work. If not, it's desk duty and a new check-up a month later.

By now, it's late afternoon and since it's been such an emotionally charged day, you're all dismissed to go home. Matt offers to drive you and, glad you have him to yourself for a moment longer, you agree.

You invite him in for just a drink. A talk. A kiss.

He never leaves...

And so, the next chapter in your relationship starts; the first real chapter after years of prologue. And for the first few weeks, it's wonderful. It's all you could ever have wished for. He's your friend, you guide, your lover. Even the last part is amazing; Matt being a sweet, considerate, generous lover, always giving, but never demanding more of you than you're comfortable with. In his arms, the images of Merrick finally begin to fade to the background.

The only thing raining on your parade is Matt's doctor's refusal to send him back on the streets fulltime. More than he wants to, he's spending his working hours behind his desk and it's frustrating him to no end.

While it secretly thrills you.

It's the only none-issue in your newly developing love life. The fact he can't wait to do his real job, only seeing the benefits while you only see the downsides. You're scared beyond measure, the nightmares often returning in full force, but you can't talk to him about it. Part of you doesn't want to: his enthusiasm is a hard bubble to burst, but another, growing part of you, consisting of a rising feeling of utter panic, is about ready to explode. If only he could see your fear. If only you could explain that you can't, just simply can't go through the mourning process again. It hurt too much the first time.

So you wait. And wait some more, relishing in his recovery and dreading the moment the doctor can no longer find due cause to keep him padlocked to his office desk. Sometimes you even think of ways to sabotage his progress, knowing all along that you could never do him harm, not even if you think it's for his own good.

So again, you wait.

Finally, the moment of truth comes another month later, when Matt opens the front door to the flat you now share, with a bunch of roses in one hand and a bottle of bubbles in the other.

"Lesh? Where are you, love, we have something to celebrate!"

The moment you come out of the bedroom, he pulls you in for a kiss, then hands you the flowers. Blushing (yes, the man can and does still make you blush on occasion), you accept them and breathe in their lovely fragrance, along with his own; a unique mixture of spicy cologne and his own pure male scent. Irresistible. And yours.

"So...what's the occasion?"

"Can't believe you don't know!" He scolds gently.

As an answer, he pulls a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket and hands it to you. Panic rises like bile in your throat as you remember that today was his check-up day with the doctor. You've managed to repress the thought until you truly forgot. Shivering in nervous anticipation, you take the paper, unfold it and read the few sentences confirming your worst nightmare.

There, black on white, Matt is fully declared healthy and therefore permanently reinstated as Detective Sergeant. Back out in the field. Back doing the job you've come to fear.

Tears spring in your eyes, but, confusing them with happy tears, Matt kisses them away.

"God, Lesh, I'm so happy, so excited. After the weekend, I'll finally be able to get back to work. Doing the real job. Man, I thought the pile of paperwork would never end. It was driving me crazy!"

There's no stopping him. He offers to make dinner and, too deflated to argue, you let him. All the while he's busy in the kitchen, he keeps up his happy chatter and with pain in your heart, you tune him out.

He's too obsessed to take notice.

It takes him till halfway through dinner to notice how withdrawn you are. Putting his glass down and foregoing on the toast he'd wanted to make, he takes your hand in his own.

"What is it Lesh? Are you okay, love? You look unhappy. I'm healthy, isn't that good news?"

Immediately, you burst out into tears, startling him. He jumps up from his chair and hurries to pull you in his arms, but you ward him off.

He can't do that anymore. Not if you're going to have to do what you fear you have to do next. He recoils, confused and hurt by your rejection.

"Lesh? Is it me? Did I miss something? Do something wrong?"

You gulp. He's so oblivious. There's no way you can break it to him gently. Best get it over with soon.

"Matt...I...I think we should...t-take a...a break. From each other."

Pain and disbelief flare in his eyes. He too gulps convulsively, as if unsure he's heard you correctly.

"Take a break? But...why? We're doing so well, right? I love you. I thought you loved me too..."

God, so much.

"I do love you. I just...I can't do this again."

"Do what again?"

Wobbling on your knees, you quickly sit down, the beautiful dinner he cooked getting cold on the table. Great. Just what you needed. Even more miles added to the guilt trip.

"When you were shot, when we thought you were dead, I wanted to die too. It hurt so much. But by some God given miracle, I got you back. A rematch. It was more than anyone could hope for. And having you with me this past few weeks...they were the best weeks of my life."

"Then why end it?"

"Because next week, you're back on the job again. So far, I knew you were safe. And yes, you hated it, I realise that, but I loved it, knowing you could not be hurt, be shot. Next week, though...it can all happen again. And next time, you might not be so lucky. You're not your cat, Matt, you don't have nine lives. And if I lose you again, it'll be forever. I'm sorry, but I just can't do that, can't just sit around waiting for you, dreading the day you might not come home."

You look up at him, but his form is distorted because of the tears obstructing your view. He sighs, crouches down in front of you, takes both your trembling hands in his own. You know you should pull back, but there's no energy left inside of you for even that simple action.

"Lesh...I wish there was something I could say to take the fear away, but I can't. I suppose I could ask Natalie for a permanent desk job, but you know just as well as I do it would bore me to tears and I might even end up blaming you for my dreary life. I understand your fear, I honestly do, but sweetheart, I belong out there, on the streets, catching the bad guys. It's my job, my life, it's what I'm good at. It's all I know how to do well."

He sighs again, a deep, desperate sound, confirming that he too knows there's no solution to this problem. No middle of the road. He can't be anything but a copper, can't be anything but himself. Just as much as you can't force yourself to stop worrying, you know you can't stop him from doing the job he was born to do.

This is it.

"So..."

Matt doesn't let you finish the sentence you never wanted to start. Instead, he hauls you up on your feet and kisses you sweetly, soundly. You'd gladly sink into him if you didn't already taste the bitterness of goodbye on his lips.

Without saying a word, he lets go of you, turns and retreats to the bedroom. You can hear him scurrying around, unzipping a bag and opening closets and drawers. He does the same in the bathroom. Ten minutes later, he comes out carrying a sports bag filled with clothes and toiletries.

"I'll be at Ronnie's if you need me. I'll come to collect the rest of my things next week. Just let me know when you won't be there, okay?"

The fact you don't hear any anger or accusation in his voice unnerves you. Somehow, him yelling at you would be a lot easier to deal with than his calm, resigned self. It's like he agrees this is for the best, while your heart screams for him to at least put up some kind of resemblance of a fight. It's completely unfair, but it hurts to have him surrender so easily, even if it's you who's throwing in the towel first.

But you don't tell him that. You just nod stupidly.

He gives you a wan smile. Turns to the door. Opens it.

With every action your heart screams at you. It's not too late! Don't let him go! Stop him! He's really leaving!

You remain silent.

He takes one step over the threshold. Looks back. Smiles again. Then starts walking.

He doesn't look back a second time. Disappears around the corner.

Five more minutes you stand frozen on your doorstep. Waiting.

Then you go back inside. Close the door behind you. Slump against it in a heaving pile of misery.

He's gone.

And this time, you pulled the trigger.

This start the most depressing moths of your life. Worse even than the weeks after his 'death', for at least then, you didn't inflict the pain on yourself.

How could you have been so stupid? You really, really thought that by breaking up with him, your fear and worry for him would fade away with time. While every half-witted moron could have told you that burying your constant worrying underneath a shitload of other painful emotions, like loss and guilt, would most definitely not make things better. If anything, it's worse.

Oh yes, the guilt is there, on full force. Like many other things, you forgot to take into account that you still have to work with him. Whenever you meet, he lets Ronnie do most of the talking. When, for some reason, he has to talk to you, he does so with polite courtesy. Not hostility per se, but there's resignation in his voice. And fatigue. His usual suave, flirty way is subdued, almost non-excitant. And sometimes, when he thinks you're not watching him (how can he possibly think you're not watching all the time, as some kind of masochist?) his features all too clearly show his sadness. He looks like he's aged at least ten years in just a few short months.

All your fault.

In the meantime, the need to take care of yourself sounds like too much to ask. You don't eat (if you do, you get sick), hardly sleep and lose weight at a rapid pace. Yet, you punish yourself by not slowing down for even a second, ignoring the increasing dizziness and light-headedness. Just like months before, you can't afford to have a meltdown. All you can do is go on at a maddening pace.

Also just like during the months after Matt's 'death', you know your superiors are worried about you, again giving you smaller cases and hopelessly trying to unburden you while you try to bury yourself underneath a mountain of paperwork and case files. In the courtroom, you're efficient and relentless, with all the tenacity of a pit-bull. And all the finesse.

James at least would have been proud. You sound more and more like him every day.

And so, before you know it, the holidays creep up on you. Of course your loved ones bombard you with invitations, all well-meant, sincere and sweet, but you decline them one by one. You're not in the mood and you won't be a killjoy at any party. You'll just get some take-out, over-tip the delivery boy out of guilt, crawl into bed with a book or a movie, a stiff drink and a hot water bottle. Hibernation is the key word. The world might look a lot happier on January 2nd.

Well, that doesn't work for Christmas. Your equally single cousin Kendra drops by unexpectedly on Christmas Eve. She's a stewardess (or air hostess, or whatever they use as a politically correct term these days) and had not expected to be home during the holidays. Thanks to a swap with a co-worker, she's home anyway and since you haven't seen much of her this last year, you raise a glass together. She stays over, a considerate listener as you pour your heart out over your lost love life. On Boxing Day, you go shopping, as you should, forgetting for just one afternoon how gloomy your future seems to be.

The days in between Christmas and New Years Eve, you are officially on a holiday, but you've brought some leftover paperwork with you and as you listlessly munch on some sparsely buttered toast, you settle yourself in front of your laptop and try to act like you're in your office, like this is just any other week. It's easier because there's no Christmas tree in your study or other decorations and you leave the radio off to avoid the cheesy songs, so nothing distracts you, reminding you it's supposed to be 'the most wonderful time of the year'. But it's also harder, because, had it been 'the most wonderful time of the year', you and Matt would have been full of plans together.

What were you afraid of again? Of losing him? Of being lonely if anything should happen to him? Well, guess what, he's still here, still healthy, and you're still lonely. Doesn't make much sense, does it? Where's your brilliant strategy now, when you need it most to use it against your own doubts?

And so New Years Eve rolls along. A dreary day. This time, Kendra is somewhere Down Under and you've successfully dodged all other party invitations, telling you mum you were going to be with friends and would probably be out of reach and telling your friends you'd be with your family. As long as neither group contacts the other, you should be secured of an alibi for the night.

Meanwhile, you're in ancient pyjamas in front of the telly, with a tub of double chocolate chip ice cream on your lap and the remote control on the arm rest. Your phone is switched off.

The world can go to hell in a hand basket today for all you care. You wouldn't mind going down with it. Prefer it even.

The minutes tick by. Listlessly you flick through the channels. Some comedy show on one. You don't find it laughable. A rerun of an ancient movie on the next. You've seen it any times over and can't be bothered with it now. Some teenage rock band's concert. You're probably old enough to be their mum. God, you're such a sourpuss.

The news channel then. Not much better. It only shows the annual odd mixture of highlights and low points of the past year. They mention riots, fires, terrorist attacks, celebrity's getting married, divorced, having babies and dying, sports highlights, politicians rising and falling, economy crises, you know, the usual shit. It'll be the same next year too, only with other faces and names in the starring roles. They don't mention Matt's shooting. You didn't expect them to, it wasn't all that important in the grand scheme of things, but you're glad nonetheless. It only makes you wonder where he is right now. Whom he's with.

And who'll be the first one he'll kiss in the new year? Will he have a leggy blonde hanging on his arm? Or a well-developed brunette? You haven't spoken to him in private since the breakup, so you can't be sure he's not seeing someone else already. Ronnie might have filled you in if he had, but not necessarily. If Matt would have asked him to keep his mouth shut, Ronnie would take that knowledge to the grave.

Bad metaphor.

But still, it wouldn't surprise you if Matt's off the market again, or at least prowling the dating scene; making a quick catch no doubt. He's a handsome man with a generally nice attitude toward women. You do know how to pick 'm, don't you?

And how to lose them.

Damn it! That's what you didn't want to think about!

Half past eleven. Thirty minutes to go. Good riddance of a bad year. Too bad the coming year doesn't look much better from where you're sitting.

In a fit of pain and self pity, you switch off the telly and head for bed. Perhaps, if you pull the duvet over your head, you might not hear the fireworks, might not see the sparks flying, might even fall asleep until everything is normal again.

A month or so should do nicely.

Twenty to twelve. Your bed is supposed to be nice and warm, but you're shivering uncontrollably anyway.

And then the doorbell rings.

You ignore it. The first two times. You're annoyed and want the intruder to take a hike. The third time you wonder if it might not be an emergency. Whoever it is, is persistent enough and you never know what can happen on a night like this. What if a neighbour is hurt by fireworks and needs you to get them to the hospital? Could you live with yourself if you never offered help? What if someone damaged your car? Or what if something has happened to someone you love?

It rings the fourth time. Quarter to midnight.

Groggily, but also concerned, you get up and make your way to the front door. You look through the peephole.

And gasp, before yanking the door open.

After that, everything goes by in a hazy blur of sensations and emotions. First, he just stands there, drinking in the sight of you like you're a goddess rather than the crumpled up, worst version of yourself. Then he mumbles something which you can't understand and takes a step forward. Cups your face. Kisses you lips, first tenderly, lovingly, then more and more greedily, claiming the whole of you and more.

Your body yields, craving the warm familiarity of his touch. It melts against his, not caring for a moment that his coat is still damp from his walk outside. As your knees give, he's ready to pick you up and carry you down the hallway (kicking the front door shut with one foot and almost stumbling; making you giggle uncontrollably) all the way to your just vacated bedroom.

If he notices it's complete state of disarray, he doesn't let on. There's no time for trivialities. There's only time for your bodies to reconnect, reacquaint themselves with their better halves, become one and whole and alive again.

And just as the fireworks outside erupt and the new year starts, the two of you see some stars of your own, hear the buzzing in your ears and reach the peak as the city, the country celebrates.

Warm and sated, you exhale as Matt rolls off of you, immediately dragging you into his arms as not to lose the precious warmth of your connection. With a sigh, you snuggle as close to him as you can, breathing in the sweet, male scent of him. Your body tingles pleasantly in all the right places and this time, you shiver with sheer delight.

For moments, the both of you remain silent. A pleasant, peaceful silence, only interrupted by some ragged breathing as you both try to get your erratic heartbeat under control. You faintly remember how worried you were about his physical condition the first times you made love, but after a while, he seemed more than healthy. In fact, he was, and still is in a damn fine shape, two small scars on his chest the only evidence of his close encounter with his Maker.

You know now. You get it. This worrying won't do you any good. It'll kill your future more effectively than any bullet could. Now all you need to do is tell him. You lift your head to look him in the eyes. The look he gives back makes you choke back the words.

They're not needed.

There's a sleepy, peaceful, content quality to the way he's regarding you.

He loves you.

He knows you love him too.

So you simply give him another loving kiss and utter three little words you never expected you would say tonight and mean them too.

"Happy New Year."


End file.
